


But I Settle for a Ghost

by OthelloGold



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OthelloGold/pseuds/OthelloGold
Summary: What the hell is going on in Nockfell?You're not sure you want to find out.(Work in progress; more chapters to come)
Relationships: Sal Fisher/Original Character(s), Sal Fisher/Reader, Sal Fisher/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	1. The First Year (1)

**Author's Note:**

> First real second-person fic. Sporadic updates, open to suggestions, etc. Let me know if you guys have any comments, suggestions, anything. Feedback keeps authors going, after all.

__

_Nockfell, 1992_

The new house is small. If it were in better condition, and not in the middle of the quasi-suburbia that made up all of Nockfell County, it might have been considered a 'quaint cottage'. But it wasn't. The blue paint was peeling, crackling lines of gray through the robin's egg color, and the once-white posts that held the awning for the porch had long since stained from years of exposure to the elements. The whole place looked worn and not in the well-loved, affectionate way either.  


"Hey! If you're not going to help, then move out of the way!"  


Rick's voice, by your left ear. Without saying a word (you were long since used to this routine), you dance out of his way and let your step father lumber by. The porch creaks under his weight as he hauls himself up the two front steps, the cardboard box hastily labeled **KITCHEN** in silver sharpie buckling uneasily in his arms. There's a sweat stain already seeping down the back of his gray sweatshirt despite the oncoming Fall chill.  


Your new home. Your new life. New step-dad, new school, and a new you.  


...  


Yeah, no, definitely not a new you.  


You have absolutely no intention of changing, despite what your mother might be thinking. A new husband that you didn't like, a new house you didn't want--these things were not in your plan, especially not at the wonderful sweet-sixteen you were on the verge of hitting. You'd hoped that, maybe, she'd put off the move from sunny Florida til after your birthday, but your mother always had your "best interests" at heart, and she wanted you to have a chance to "make friends" before your birthday rolled in at your new school.  


Right. Cause nothing says "Be my bestie!" like exchanging trauma stories with other teenagers.  


As you ruminate over the choices that led you here--your mother's choices--said woman steps out of the U-HAUL truck and rests a work-creased hand across your shoulder. "Don't take it personally," She says, as if you're upset by Rick's brusque behavior. You really, really aren't. "He's just stressed. Moving's never easy, you know? He just wants to get moved in before he starts his job at the factory next week."  


You shrug and shove your hands into your hoodie pockets. Your fingers bump over the edges of your old CD player, finding comfort in the curve of the wires and the indented play button, worn down from over-use. You had to stop playing the Megadeth CD you owned blaring once you pulled up into the yard of your new house. "It's fine, Mom. I really don't care."  


She smiles, lips pulling back over her teeth. Your mother reminds you of a dog, sometimes. She bares her teeth to show aggression, as a threat. The only sign that she's not doing it this time is that instead of her eyes being blown wide, promising punishment for a poorly-spoken word, they're wrinkled in the corners to show she's pleased with your indifference.  


She bends over and kisses your forehead over your bangs. It tickles, and you smell the dredges of her Dior perfume, flowers and linen mixed with the burger grease from the takeout you'd all shared for lunch. "My little adult," She says. "You know, it's still early," She glances down at her watch, turning her wrist upwards as she returns to her full height. You follow her stare and read the crystal face of the clock. 2:10.  


"I think the high school is just letting out. You might be able to run into a few new kids if you head out," She chirps. Dread pools in the bottom of your gut. You keep your face carefully schooled into your practiced mask of indifference, even as your fingers pick up the pace of rapidly tapping against your CD player. Keep time, tap-tap-tap, one-two-one-two... Your therapist had reccomended rhythms and stimulation methods to keep your anxiety from spiking in stressful situations.  


Your mother's bright eyes take you in, gleaming hazel under sharp eyeliner and perfectly-applied mascara. Perfectly made up, a beauty queen 'til the end. "Why don't you go ahead and try to learn the town? I'll have Rickie set up your bed. We'll leave the boxes untouched so you can set up your room just how you like," She rests her hands on her hips.  


It feels like a Mexican stand off. Both options are, honestly, horrible. You take a minute to chew it over, trailing the wires from your pocket up to your neck, wrapping your cold fingers around the plastic headphones draped over the back of your hood.  


Option One: stay home. Be subjected to Rick getting angry, popping open beers as he works, and him and mom yelling at each other and then condescendingly telling you they were just talking loudly while you desperately tried to shut them out and fix everything you owned in your new room in the crackling, peeling house.  


Option two: leave. Wander around the new town, possibly get lost, or worse; talk to people. You might run into strangers, who might want to talk, might want to _get to know you_ and get in your space. What if they wanted to shake hands and touch you? What could possibly be more terrifying than the existential crisis-inducing event of being KNOWN?  


After more careful consideration you find yourself grabbing your headset and shoving them unceremoniously over your ears. At least with option two, you run the chance of not running into people, and you can blast Megadeth into your ears until you ran the threat of going deaf or giving yourself tinnitus.  


"Cool," You say to your mother. She's practically beaming at your compliance. It is a rare feat these days to agree to anything she says. "Got a time you want me to be back by?"  


"Fluerette!" Rick's voice booms from the open front door. "Where do you want your Pampered Chef set?!"  


"Hang on!" Your mother screams back over your head. You're very glad you wore your headset. She looks back down at you and grabs your cold cheeks, smothering you in an abundance of kisses that are wholly unnecessary and unwanted. "Be back by sundown," She says when you finally wrench away and get your personal space back.  


A loud crash comes from your house and the happy face is gone. The dog is back. Your mother shoves past you and screams something in her native French at your step-dad. You don't try to translate it and beeline for the sidewalk down the neighborhood road, hurriedly pressing play on your CD.  


The last strains of _"Tu m'emmerdes avec ton bruit!"_ are drowned out by the hard guitar opening to _Psychotron_ starting up in your ears. You're thankful for it as your feet lead you down the concrete, adrenaline kicking in just as Dave Mustaine's voice crackles to life; at least you can put some distance in between yourself and the house and desperately pretend the fight that inevitably starts isn't going to boil over by the time you get home.  


Nockfell is rural. You'd been able to see that when Rick had driven into town. A small suburb, rolling fields with vague mountain lines in the distance; you'd passed only a single church on the way in. There had been five within twenty miles back in your old hometown. It won't be hard to memorize your street name and it, hopefully, won't be difficult to find your way back home.  


The cold air stings your nose and chills your lungs. It forces your desperate sprint down to a jog, then to hobbling speed-walk before you finally come to an awkward stand-still in the middle of the sidewalk. You rest a hand over your chest and try to regulate your breathing. It's not quite cold enough to see your breath yet, but the creeping chill can certainly be felt in the numbness starting to grow across your flushed cheeks.  


"I'm out of shape," You mutter. Well, it's not like you were looking to join the Nockfell High Track Team any time soon.  


Once your chest stops it's ugly spasming around every attempted breath, you manage to right yourself back into something vaguely human-shaped rather than the huddled over mess of black hoodie and gray jeans you'd been sporting. You haven't put too much distance between yourself and the house--you can still see the shingled roof and the curve of the awning--but it's enough to calm the beginnings of the anxiety attack that had been trying to form.  


You scuff the toe of your left sneaker against the ground and take an overly-exaggerated spin around, arms outstretched. "Wow, Mom!" You say to no-one. "I love Nockfell! It's cold as fuck and I'm totally making friends with," You stop, count to four, and drop your arms. "Absolutely no one."  


A black sedan speeds by on the road to your left, scattering brittle leaves and little else. You didn't even see a person behind the wheel; just the briefest reflection of yourself, a lanky teen statistic in the throes of a tantrum.  


It did, however, reflect something else; the silvery, glinting archway of a graveyard entrance just several feet behind you, carefully hidden and overlapped by a copse of dying, dry trees. Just as you turn your head, bangs catching across your eyes--your CD catches.  


It skips over _Countdown to Extinction_. Once, twice, the scratchy vocals constantly catching and repeating as you stare at the sign to the Neveroak Cemetery and reach into your hoodie pocket.  
_Killed a few feet from the cages--killed a few fee--killed--kikk-kikkk-kkkkkklll_  


"Stupid thing." You turn it upside down, slap it with the flat of your palm and turn it off. A chill crawls down your spine and up the vertebrae of your neck. You chalk it up to the weather and certainly not because your CD decided to screw up on the worst possible song it could in front of a cemetery gate.  


You pull your headphones down around your neck and cross the sidewalk to where it leads into a well worn, small dirt patch that goes directly to the closed gate of the cemetery. You'd never been the type of kid to really engage in stupid activities like trashing cemeteries in the dead of night. Though you'd heard of the raging parties the juniors and seniors at your old school would throw in the cemeteries, desecrating gravestones and making out in mausoleums, it had never really piqued your interest.  


The Neveroak Cemetery doesn't pique your interest either. Not exactly. You just find yourself standing at the gate, fingers wrapped around the brittle, rusted iron, staring through the bars and at the multiple headstones that dot the small hilly plot. You can only really see newer, modern gravestones, but you find it odd that such a small town has such a large, expansive patch of land for their dead.  


How many people could die in Nockfell a year?  


Before you can ponder the generational difference, there's a skittering of crushed pebbles by your left shoe. You recoil, a brief, irrational fear of a zombie hand grabbing your ankle through your jeans popping up.  


It's nothing so grand. Rather, it's a fat, happy cat, meandering its way across the lawn and right towards you. You like cats. You do. You had a cat back when you were a kid. That said, you have a very extensive Stephen King collection, and you've watched _Pet Semetary_ too many times for this shit. "Nice kitty," You say even as you tilt your leg back. "Don't, come on, I'm a weird person who probably kicks cats," You try again as the orange cat lumbers to you.  


It blinks, amber eyes glimmering the same color of the leaves beneath your feet, and it gives a happy chirrup before lunging for your shoes. You'd scream, but what comes out is a far more graceful; _**"Hgorck!"**_ As the cat manages to slam into your shins to wrap its needle teeth into your shoe laces.  


Ah. String. Your worst enemy and the cat's prey.  


You go ass-over-teakettle, headset and CD player flying over your head in a graceful arch. Ten out of ten, so majestic. You'd be more impressed over the distance if your head didn't just crash flat into the dirt so the cat can mangle your vans beyond compare. It doesn't hurt too bad, and it doesn't feel like you have a concussion, but the world definitely spins and you see stars.  


The cat's purring happily, sitting its fat, absurdly fluffy rear-end on your gut, making biscuits with little paws over your hip while it tugs your shoelaces in its mouth. It would be cute, if the damn thing hadn't totally just jumped you.  


...  


You got jumped by a cat on your first day in Nockfell.  


"Hey," You sit up, resting one hand on your aching head and supporting your upper body with your elbow. The cat turns its head to look at you, squinting in a pleased way, laces still firmly latched in its mouth. "Is this you wanting to be my friend?" You tentatively reach out. The cat doesn't swat you. In fact, it purrs pleasantly as you roll its ear in your fingers, orange fur bristling happily between the pads of your thumb and forefinger.  


At least it didn't kill you, ala-Stephen King style. You slip your hands beneath the cat's paws, hauling it up and into your arms. Luckily, it doesn't seem to mind. It even releases your shoelaces from its death grip, purring up a storm against your chest. You can't bring yourself to mind the inevitable cat-hair storm you'll surely end up having after this.  


You pet its head and scratch under its chin. It looks like a Maine Coone, beautifully groomed and well fed. "You're somebody's pet, huh, lil' guy?" You murmur. It kneads its little gremlin paws in your hoodie and purrs again. You melt a little and rub your cheek against the top of its head, eyes half-closing. You do love animals... "I bet they're looking for you. Where'd you come from?"  


The cat had come from the opposite end of the cemetery, so just further ahead from where you were. You hoist the cat up a bit further in your arms and begin to walk again, now with a new mission in mind; to find the owner of your new friend and would-be attacker.  


It's only once you've crossed the street in a desperate little speed walk that you see a black collar with a hastily written tag; it looks like it was newly put on and half way to being chewed apart by your fluffy companion, and the name is barely readable in the pencil scratched over a print-out tab.  


_Gizmo.  
_

"Okay, so you're Gizmo," You say. Gizmo purrs. "Alright, Gizmo, let's find your family. They need to know that they have a dangerous criminal they need to keep imprisoned at all costs."  


Gizmo only yowls at you, as if agreeing that they are, indeed, a violent and wanted escapee. 

"I'm so glad you agree," You narrow your eyes and use one hand to dangle your headphones in front of Gizmo. Gizmo's eyes light up and they immediately begin to bat at the wires, pink paw-pads pulling the electronic in for a new game. "Because your owner owes me a new Megadeth CD. If it wasn't broken before, it definitely is now."


	2. The First Year (2)

Gizmo tangles your headphone wires over their little muzzle in the fourteen steps you take with them down the side of the street. “Don’t choke on it!” You try not to panic, attempting to poke and worm the wire down over their muzzle. Gizmo has the _audacity_ to smack their little paws against your fingers to stall your help and snap their fangs into the wire, severing the headphones from your CD player. 

Your face falls, but you’re far more concerned with the well-being of this weird-ass cat you’ve been reluctantly bonding to for all of ten minutes. “Gizmo, don’t!” You wrench the wires into your fist and yank back, giving a small ‘ah-HAH!’ in victory as Gizmo yowls their defeat. You hold the headphones high above your head as Gizmo waves their little paws, lording your win over the fat fluff ball. 

It hits you—you’re engaging in an active tug-of-war with a random cat. Who attacked you at a cemetery? You feel the corners of your lips drop into a frown again. Gizmo tilts their head up into your chest, distracted by _your_ current distraction, and once again starts up their motor-boat purr. “Yeah, keep it up, cutie,” You grumble to said cat. “Wait til I find your parent.” 

Your fingertips are going numb despite Gizmo’s (seemingly) affectionate nibbling. Your head is still throbbing and there’s an ache in your lower back from the hard impact of your fall. You’ll probably have bruises lining all down your spine tomorrow; but that’s not your problem for today. It’s _Tomorrow-You’s_ problem, after all. 

Today-You’s current issue is dropping off Gizmo and getting home before dark to set up your room. That being said... You’re not sure for how long you’ll be able to hold out, aimlessly searching for someone who may or may not be looking for a cat. You tilt your head down to stare at Gizmo. The lucky cat has moved from the wires of your headphones, still clutched half-way in the air by your left hand, to your hoodie strings. Thankfully, Gizmo doesn’t chew on these. They just bat at them and watch as they swing with their wide, amber eyes, tongue poking out between their little front teeth. 

Gizmo’s very cute. If Rick didn’t hate any-and-all animals, you’d consider dragging the fat cat home and attempt to find their owner in the morning with a full day ahead of you. You sigh through your nose and squint down at the cat as you slow to a stop. There’s a crossroad not too far ahead and you take note that you’ve already walked by that single church that Rick had driven by on your way into Nockfell. In the distance you can see the center of downtown, high-rise buildings and glinting glass windows. 

Closer by, however, is an apartment building. Brownstone, or perhaps brick, a mottled gray-brown color against the swiftly darkening sky. That’s most likely where Gizmo came from. Your house was oh-so-fondly nestled in the hillside district of Nockfell Homes and Gizmo had strolled your way from the absolute opposite way... Which, of course, you’re now facing and staring out at nothing like a stoner. 

Gizmo hasn’t squirmed once. It’s quite surprising, considering the cat’s slipping down under your arms and their little back legs are swinging by your hips. You adjust said cat, hoist their fat little butt up in your arms, and pat their back like you would a small child. Gizmo rumbles out three long, consecutive purrs that end in high-pitched squeaks. “I like you too, buddy,” You say. You give Gizmo a good scritch along their back and try not to grin as they arch backwards into your hand, almost flopping backwards out of your arms once more. 

You make sure the cat doesn’t go _splat_ on the concrete as you approach the complex. Gizmo doesn’t give off any warning signs; no random yowling, panicking or scrambling, so at least the building isn’t crawling with bad vibes. You turn your head to the right, staring at the small wooden sign that’s dug into the dirt outside of the turnoff into the complex. 

_Addison Apartments_. 

You’re a little grateful that Rick demanded to live in a house over the apartments. Not that there was anything wrong with the apartment—it looked livable. But as you stand there, toeing the line where the grass met the sidewalk and staring at the long singular path into the building’s front door, you find yourself not wanting to move. The numbness has spread from your fingertips to your elbows, crawling up over your shoulders and seeping down your sides in thin, twisting vines. 

Not everything is cold. But not everything is warm, either. Gizmo is relaxed in your arms, purring away, but unease continues to grow deep in your stomach. You try to tell yourself it’s an anxiety attack. It’s brought on by the stressor of having to talk to strangers to find Gizmo’s owner. It’s because you have to go into a strange apartment, talk to strange people, and put yourself in danger because you’re a fifteen-year-old kid and you suspect any authority figures on a good day. 

Your therapist in Florida taught you a breathing technique to quell your anxiety. You try to remember it. Tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth; inhale, hold, exhale, hold. Keep your tongue behind your top row of teeth. Rinse and repeat. You keep track of the seconds and count as you force your feet ahead. There are thirteen perfectly cut concrete squares that lead to the apartments. 

You fumble with your count. On the fifth count of seven for your inhale, you unintentionally count the eighth sidewalk square and freeze on the spot. It’s like a broken spell. You’ve screwed up royally, and the anxiety attack bleeds into a panic attack as bile bubbles in your gut. Gizmo will _never_ find their home because you forgot how to count like a second grader. 

Gizmo gives a confused ‘mrrrp’ by your ear. It takes a second to ground yourself, but Gizmo is there. Gizmo rubs their cheek against yours, purrs, kneads their paws against your shoulders. It grounds you, and as the black edges of your vision finally dissipate, you find that you’ve bent over on the sidewalk again just in front of the apartments, almost kneeling with how far you crouched down. 

The cat continues to rub against you. Gizmo ducks their head under your chin, whiskers tickling your icy cheeks, and their side is very firmly against your racing heart. You breathe. You rub the cat’s fur and focus on the pattern of white and orange, on how Gizmo’s eyes are pure molten gold and stare at you with an intelligence most animals lack. Gizmo calms you down with a deliberate and practiced ease, as if they’ve done this before. 

Maybe they have. Oh, god, did you find someone’s _emotional support_ cat? 

You struggle to your feet. The soles of your sneakers slide against the concrete as you try to regain your footing and find stability. The possibility of having someone’s support animal lights a bit more of a fire under your ass; enough so that, with the adrenaline pumping through your veins, you about scream when the front door to the apartments swings open. 

It catches on the back of your tongue, chokes you, and your right leg raises up in defense. Gizmo doesn’t do much else than give a happy yowl. The woman who opens the door jolts as well, as scared as you are. Or maybe she was more frightened by the croak that came out of your mouth instead of a scream. She’s wearing a blue jumpsuit with a sheaf of old, browned newspapers dangling halfway out of her arms. Several of them scatter when she recoils from you, her mouth opening around an “Oh!”. 

You try to school your face into indifference, but even you can tell it’s too late for that. The way you jumped and the instant defensive position give away the fear and the edges of panic that still linger. The woman fumbles with the papers in her arms, but her face softens almost immediately once she takes in your figure. Her laugh is equal parts airy and nervous. “Oh, I’m sorry! I wasn’t expecting anyone to be standing at the door. Did I frighten you, sweetheart?” 

You can’t speak. You simply heft Gizmo higher in your arms, clench your fingers over the cat’s belly to stem their shaking. _‘Come on,’_ the words echo in your head. An awkward silence is filling the space between you and the woman. _‘Come ON, say something! Yes, you scared me!’_ Your mouth opens, closes, and you turn your face into the top of Gizmo’s head. 

You aren’t expecting the woman to pop down into a squat in front of you. She isn’t the picture of radiance. Her skin is sallow, with the beginnings of heavy bags under her dark eyes. The jut of her cheekbones is sharp and she overall just looks _tired_. Despite all of this, there’s a glimmer to her eyes and the smile on her face is warm and open. Inviting, even. She doesn’t move to touch you and gives you enough space to pull away. 

She’s dealt with skittish people before, and it shows. 

Gizmo’s purring up a storm, and for a second it’s the only sound between you two. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry,” The woman says. She points to Gizmo and gives a surprised laugh. “Though, I see you got Gizmo! I thought Sal and Larry were going to lose their minds looking for him! Are you one of their friends from school?” 

Huh. So, Gizmo’s a boy. You look down at the cat who meets your gaze. You realize that the woman has asked you a question just a moment too late. By the time you’ve glanced up again, the words still lodged in your throat, the woman is waiting. She’s staring at you expectantly, but her smile hasn’t wavered. She still looks genuinely interested in hearing your response. 

You try to answer. You _try_. But between the shock and the fact that this is a strange adult, a strange woman? 

Instead, you decide you can only physically respond. You set Gizmo down between yourself and the woman. The cat slides unsteadily, wobbling on his back legs before landing on his forepaws and giving you a disappointed look at being set back on his feet. When you straighten, you shove your hands back into your hoodie pocket and give a resolute shake of your head. 

No, you aren’t friends with anyone. You feel as if you’d croak if you tried to speak. The woman doesn’t look displeased. She stands, shifts the old papers to her other arm and opens the door, scolding Gizmo as the cat happily plods his way to her legs. “You little brat! Giving the boys such a scare. You’re lucky someone nice found you!” She turns her head and focuses her dark gaze on you once more. “Do you want to come in, sweetheart? It’s getting chilly out. I’m sure Sal will want to thank you for finding his cat.” 

Your heart lurches and you rapidly shake your head again. Nope, no, you are so okay with NOT meeting a stranger! The woman opens her mouth to say something—maybe to convince you—but she doesn’t get the chance. 

Gizmo yowls. He’s circled the woman to jump back up against your legs, hobbling unsteadily on his back paws as he digs his little claws into the fabric of your jeans. “ _Ow!_ “ It’s the first thing that finally breaks through the dam in your mouth. You try to jump back, but Gizmo’s claws are firmly caught in the denim and he ends up tottering with you, chirruping and continuing his drawn-out yowls. 

The woman drops the newspapers and tries to grab the cat by his fluffy middle, a panicked gasp on her tongue. “Gizmo! You bad boy, let go! I’m so sorry, he’s not normally— _Gizmo!_ “ 

To an outsider, it must be a hilarious sight. A grown woman trying to desperately pry a fat cat off of a panicking teenager, with said teenager balancing on one leg and frantically windmilling their arms to keep balance. To you, however, it’s sending you on the verge of another anxiety attack because the woman is _two centimeters away_ from touching you, Gizmo’s claws are actually hitting your skin through the denim of your pants and— 

Oh, yep, there goes your balance. 

You tilt back on your heel and, once again, go ass-over-teakettle. Though, this time, you have a plus-one clinging to your leg as you go backwards towards the concrete. _‘I hate it here,’_ is the last thought you have before gravity makes you its bitch. 

The woman loses her grip on Gizmo’s fur and you hear her brief shout of panic as this random-ass-teenager she’s known for three seconds goes to the ground. 

You’re expecting another crash of pain in the back of your head. Maybe even a real concussion this time. You don’t get that, though. Instead, your head knocks against something just as hard as the concrete, but it’s before you hit the ground. And it’s warm. And—oh, fuck, it’s a **person**. 

The person was attempting to catch you, it seems, because two arms end up slinging awkwardly over your shoulders and in front of your face as Gizmo turns you into a human domino. Said cat finally loses his grip on your leg as you and your new buffer fall onto the sidewalk; the cat all but flies over your head comically, all four paws outstretched and tail puffed out. 

“Gizmo!” A third person has come out of the woodwork just in time to catch the cat before four sets of claws can implant in your face. You’d be grateful, but there’s someone _touching_ you and you need to get away. Your arms flail and your voice crackles out on something nonsensical. It’s an odd mix of a yelp and a panic-stricken “ _gitoff!!_ “ accompanied by the back of your knuckles connecting firmly with someone’s jaw. 

Their arms fly off of you and you hear a pained exclamation. You scramble up and away just to land hard on your hands and knees on the sidewalk with a cold sweat breaking down the back of your neck. There’s an intense urge to scratch at where you were touched, all underneath your hoodie, _scratch until lines are red and there’s blood welling just below the surface _but you fist your hands together and rock back until you’re sitting properly on the ground, staring at the new group that’s cornered you.__

__The woman has circled around to the newcomers with hands outstretched to help your human mattress. The boy is holding his jaw with both hands, eyes watering and lips pulled over his teeth in a horrible grimace. Your knuckles are bright red, and so is the rapidly mottling skin by his mouth. Did you punch him? You thought you just kind of... Slapped him. Backwards. Shit._ _

__He blinks through the pain. “Nice right hook, dude.”_ _

__His hair is greasy, forehead shining with oily streaks, and his eyes are just as dark as the woman’s. He doesn’t look unfriendly, and a hot pang of guilt flares up in you. You spazzed the hell out and hit someone who literally was just trying to keep you from cracking your skull open on the dirt._ _

__You take a second to speak. The woman is tilting his head up to inspect the bruise when you finally croak out a response. “Sorry,” You say. It’s barely above a whisper, but it’s heard when two sets of eyes swing over to you. “I didn’t—I don’t,” You fumble again. Your eyes swing quickly to the left of the boy and you startle._ _

__The other person holding Gizmo is wearing a mask. It’s an off-white, a patch of pink awkwardly jimmied and pasted in over the right eye, carefully fringed off with bright blue bangs of the person’s pigtails. Gizmo rests happily in their arms and is apparently much more at ease than when you were holding him. Less squirmy, for sure._ _

__You look down and stare at the crescent imprints your nails have left in your palms. “Sorry,” You repeat. The boy swipes at his jaw and sniffs. His eyes are still red, presumably from the tears, but he swings back up on his legs and shrugs. He’s tall, gangly, and in the same awkward throes of teenage-dom that you’re suffering in._ _

__He swipes his fingers over the bridge of his nose. It’s sharp, and a little crooked; like he’s been in one too many fights without setting the broken bone. “It’s cool. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”_ _

__The woman rests her hand on the boy’s shoulder and shakes him gently. “Larry, Sal, they found Gizmo for you! I was trying to invite them inside, but Gizmo had other plans,” She turns to you and gives an embarrassed smile. “I never got around to introducing myself before this little debacle, did I? I’m Lisa Johnson. This here is my boy, Larry,” She wraps him up in her left arm and he gives a little shuffle, but doesn’t pull away or look terribly displeased. “And this is my other boy, Sal!”_ _

__She wrings the blue-haired person into their right arm. He’s smaller than Larry, bundled up in a black sweater and faded jeans, but he says nothing as he’s jostled into Lisa’s side. You can’t read his expression, but the vague impression that he’s pleased shows in his body language; how he tilts his head up into Lisa’s side and his shoulders don’t bunch with tension._ _

__“You found Gizmo?” Sal asks. His voice is muffled, but it’s clear enough for you to hear. Sal knows how to project. He waits until Lisa’s released both him and Larry to approach. He stops almost dead in his tracks when you sidle back; the second you show hesitation, he’s stopped. He’s reading you as much as you can read him. “Thank you so much. We just put this new collar on him and he doesn’t seem to like it,” Sal flicks the black tag on the collar. Gizmo chirps. “So he threw a tantrum and booked it when I got home from school.”_ _

__“I still don’t know how he got into the freakin’ elevator without us noticing,” Larry grumbles. He leans over to tweak Gizmo’s ears, pinching and pulling at the cat with a small laugh. “Where’d you end up finding him?”_ _

__Your tongue is heavy in your mouth. You struggle to your feet and tug your sleeves over your hands. “By the graveyard,” You say. It’s like speaking with a wad of cotton in your mouth. “He, uh. Attacked me,” You glance down at your headphones and finger the busted wire. “Just my shoelaces, I mean. He didn’t really attack me until he got onto my leg, and...”_ _

__You’re rambling._ _

___‘Just shut up.’_ _ _

__Sal makes a noise behind his mask. “Oh, dude. Did he eat your headphones?”_ _

__You tense. You weren’t planning to say anything about it, with anxiety and panic mixing into a heavy cocktail in your head. “No,” You sputter. “I mean, yeah, he chewed on them but it’s fine, it’s what cats do.”_ _

__“Gizmo!” Larry barks. Lisa laughs as the cat jumps in Sal’s arms and yowls in return. “Bro, you can’t eat random headphones! That shit’s expensive.”_ _

__“Language,” Lisa chimes. She seems pleased, though, and gives the three of you a smile. “Why don’t you two figure out this headphone situation with, uh...” She looks to you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t get your name.”_ _

__You twirl the frayed wire in your hands and pick at the rubber tubing until it splinters apart against your nails. “I didn’t give it,” You mumble. You take a breath and introduce yourself, still shying backwards from the attention. You tell them the bare bones; you just moved in, you were taking a walk, and boom. Cemetery-Gizmo._ _

__“Right, well. I’ll leave you three up to it! I need to get rid of this old kindling,” Lisa walks to the front step and bends down to scoop up the papers. On her way by you, she leans over and smiles at you. Her eyes are bright. “Welcome to Nockfell, hon. I’m sure you’ll make a lot of friends here.” She sends a quick look towards Larry and Sal, smiles wider, and then steps around the side of the building with a cheerful hum in her voice._ _

__You’re reminded of a mother trying to set her child up for a playdate because said child is horrible at making friends. Here, you can’t tell if Lisa is trying to set up the two guys in front of you or if she’s trying to set YOU up. Either way, it’s left you alone with two veritable strangers._ _

__“Mrow!”_ _

__Two strangers and a Gizmo, right, right._ _

__Sal hefts the cat up further in his arms. You can’t see his eyes from the shadowed overhang of the mask, but you can assume he’s staring at you. His head tilts upwards at just the right angle to stare without making it look odd. You’d add “or creepy” onto that, but given that he’s wearing a very high-priced and somehow more terrifying version of a Michael Myers mask..._ _

__Larry coughs into his shoulder and sniffs. His jacket is grungy, riddled with holes and tears, but he huddles up into it and zips it up halfway. “So. You going to school here yet?” He attempts to make conversation. You wrinkle your nose._ _

__“Next week, on Monday.”_ _

__Sal sets Gizmo down. The cat flops across his blue converse and rests his chin on the concrete. Unlike his frantic attempts to keep you before, Gizmo has calmed down to the lazy persona of a common house cat. “Cool,” Sal’s trying to keep up a conversation. You’re not sure you appreciate it, but you let him talk. “If you want, we can maybe help you around. At least tell you where your classes are. When you get your schedule, I mean,” As he speaks, he reaches a hand up and tugs on one of the blue pigtails by his ear._ _

__He pulls, twists, brushes the hair back in repetitive motions. A nervous tic, then. “And, look, I feel terrible about Gizmo’s... Everything,” He uses his free hand to gesture to the cat. Gizmo ‘mrrp’s once more. “I think I have a spare headset for a CD player. I don’t have any money to replace it, but I’d feel really bad that you found my cat, and he just wrecked your stuff.”_ _

__You flinch and peel apart more rubber from the wire. It falls apart like string cheese in your hands, silvery bits and bobs dusting your fingers. “You don’t have to. It’s just headphones, it’s not a big deal.”_ _

__Larry rests his arm across Sal’s shoulders and uses him like an armrest. Sal simply spreads his feet to distribute the weight and holds up well. They’re obviously close friends. Maybe even brothers, if what Lisa said about them being her boys rings true. “Do you have another set?” Larry asks you and gestures to the wires in your hands._ _

__The way your chin falls to your chest gives it away, even if you didn’t mumble “No” under your breath._ _

__“Sal says he might. And even if he doesn’t, we’ve got another friend in the apartment who might be able to salvage ‘em—if you stop peelin’ them like that, dude.”_ _

__You drop the wire like it’s burned you. Sal whacks Larry in the gut with the back of his hand, earning a pained grunt from his friend. “Leave them alone,” Sal might be hissing, but it could also just be a whisper muffled by the porcelain across his face. He turns his head to you and gives another nod. “He’s not lying, though. At least let me try to pay you back. We can even help you get back home, if you need it. Nockfell’s not a maze or anything, but it can be a little hard to navigate when you’re new.”_ _

__Your lips purse. You don’t really want to go into a strange apartment with two equally strange guys, especially with your adrenaline levels still fluctuating. That said, the idea of walking past the cemetery, close to sunset, without even Megadeth comforting you..._ _

__You cross your arms and rock back on your heels. Your palms sting a little. You might have scraped them on your fall down. Larry and Sal watch you expectantly as you mull it over, before you finally close your eyes and take a deep breath. You do two rounds of your mindfulness exercise—tongue to teeth, inhale, hold, exhale, hold—before you reopen your eyes._ _

__They’re not giving you an odd look. They’re just waiting, and Larry looks... Oddly accepting of this. Like he’s proud of you, even, which is extremely odd since you just met the guy._ _

___‘Do they know what I’m doing? Maybe they have anxiety, too.’_ _ _

__“Alright,” You agree. Larry perks up and punches Sal gently across the shoulder. Sal’s jostled and swings his head back to presumably glare at Larry, but it’s friendly. There’s no malice between them, just a happy little back-and-forth of good friends. “Just for a set of headphones and help back to Nockfell Homes,” You reiterate._ _

__Larry crosses the distance and passes you on his way to the door. He doesn’t touch you and is careful to give you a wide berth. “Sure, man,” He assures you. Gizmo trots by you and leads Sal ahead. Sal nods his agreement._ _

__“I was the new kid awhile back, myself,” Sal says. You follow him as Larry opens the door, both you and Sal passing under Larry’s outstretched arm. He’s oddly tall; a half-head over you, and a full one over poor Sal. “Larry helped me get adjusted and make some great friends here. Besides, Gizmo seems to like you. Maybe we can be friends, too.”_ _

__It’s not asking if you want to _be_ friends. It’s a simple statement. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. No pressure. _ _

__You brush your hair out of your eyes as the three of you, plus one cat, load up into the elevator in the center of the first floor. As the metal doors close, you glance to the left and feel something cold drip down your spine as your eyes land on the apartment closest to the elevator. 103. At first, you think it's just nerves from being enclosed in such a small space--at least, until you notice the black eyes peering at you from the mail slot of the apartment door. Had those eyes been on you since Lisa ran into you? Your mouth is dry. The black eyes squint, pale lids half-lowering, and then the mail slot flaps back down with a metallic clink._ _

___What the fuck was that?_ _ _

__The elevator closes on you, silencing your questions, and the counter begins upwards to the fourth floor._ _


	3. The First Year (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of the First Year "arc"! The next chapter should start the roll for the real spooky stuff.

There’s little to be said between the three of you in the elevator. That doesn’t mean the ride up is silent, however. Between the soft rings of the elevator hitting floors two and three, Larry fills the air with mindless chatter. It’s mostly directed towards Sal, but there are a few comments thrown at you as you stand pressed in the corner. Gizmo takes residence by your feet for the brief trip up, purring happily as he winds in between your legs. 

“--And if Travis says one more thing about your prosthetic to my face, I’m gonna deck him so bad he’ll need one,” Larry continues. He turns to you and adds, solemnly; “Travis Phelps is a total dick. Don’t talk to him if you can help it, he’s an ass.” 

Sal shakes his head. “Larry, c’mon. You can’t tell people who they can and can’t like.” Sal turns his head to address you. You’ve noticed that he’s careful about that. He doesn’t turn his head to Larry, but that’s presumably because he _knows_ Larry. He doesn’t know you, you don’t know him, and he’s giving tells to show that he’s properly addressing you. 

Briefly, you wonder if it isn’t hard, relearning how to talk to people without them being able to read your facial cues. 

“Travis isn’t a bad guy,” Sal says. “A little hard to get along with, sure, but we’re all still young. There’s time for him to change.” 

You rub your arms. You’re familiar with bullies. There had been far too many while you were in elementary, middle, and even in your first year of high school. Children are cruel, especially when they can’t understand their peers. You had always been unknowable. “I’d rather just keep to myself in school,” You say. “Go in, do my work, go home. If some guy wants to pick a fight, that’s his issue.” 

Larry gives a heavy put-upon sigh and knocks his head back against the elevator walls. “Man, you sound just like _him_ ,” Larry kicks the back of Sal’s ankle affectionately. The blue-haired boy makes a sound similar to a dry cough, but you think it’s a laugh. “All I’m saying is that if he gives you any trouble, come an’ grab us. Or me. Sal won’t wanna fight him, but I’m waitin’ for an excuse to punch him.” 

“You’re going to get expelled one day,” Sal’s voice is exasperated. He’s the first one to lope out of the elevator when it shudders to a stop on the fourth floor, taking a sharp right out into the hall. 

Larry gives you a gap-toothed grin, shrugs, and lumbers after Sal. You’re the last one out, Gizmo hopping over your feet as you follow the two teenagers. Your fingers trail along the wall as cool steel gives way to yellowed wallpaper, the floral design looking as if it’d been the same since the fifties. You follow the pattern with your eyes, and right as Sal stops at what you presume is his apartment, your fingers freeze along the curling print vines. 

Is someone watching you? There’s a heavy, oppressive weight on your back. It’s odd; you didn’t feel this when those eyes were staring at you from the mail slot downstairs—you need to ask Sal and Larry what the hell that was about—but it feels as if someone is looming behind you. As if their hands are outstretched and their fingers are curling to your throat, icy fingertips pressing just under your jaw. 

You glance over your shoulder. There’s no one down the hall. The only thing out of place is the apartment to the left of the elevator. The door to apartment 403 is absolutely and utterly _busted_. It splinters at the top corner of the doorframe, the number tag knocked sideways, the entire doorknob missing. Gouges line the wood of the wall and bleed into the faded green paint of the door, deep scratches and missing chunks that look already look old. 

What the _fuck_? Had there been a home invasion? Why hadn’t the door been fixed? Did anyone even live in there? 

Larry must see your distraction because his voice floats from in front of you. “Lookin’ at 403, huh? I don’t blame ya. It’s nasty.” 

You turn your head back to face him. Sal is waiting in the doorway of his apartment, but his head is angled away. He’s not looking at you. Larry, slouched and with his hands shoved in his jean pockets, makes a small face. His nose scrunches and his lip curls, as if he’s smelling something foul. “Happened a few years ago. The apartment doesn’t have a lot of cash in the budget, so it never got fixed.” 

You want to ask what could have done such damage to the door. Instead, you decide to be a goddamn idiot and walk to 403. 

“Hey”--Sal’s voice is sharp, as if trying to stop you--“There’s nothing in there!” 

“Okay,” You throw over your shoulder. “I just wanna see the damage. It’s pretty bad.” 

Larry doesn’t move to grab you, but he follows your steps and takes his hands out of his pockets, palms hovering upwards as if he’s getting ready to support you in a dead faint. You stop in front of the door. It’s still open, a gaping black sliver staring you straight in the face. Your fingers brush the splintered wood, tracing the deep indent in the framing. 

That oppressive weight hits you again. It’s pressure on your shoulders and spine, as if someone was boring down on you with all of their might. Your knees buckle and for just a split second, you smell something rancid and sour. Rotting meat and old urinal stall, mixing into a heady perfume, and for a second you swear the wood is burning your fingers. 

You yank your hand away and smack Larry right in the jaw. “Shit!” You yelp as he recoils, his own hands clamped over his mouth. “I’m _so sorry_!” 

“It’s fine—augh, shit, man!” Larry pulls his hands away and turns to Sal, who’s crossed the doorway to stare at you two with his arms crossed. “Dude, am I bleeding?” 

“Nope.” 

“Did I get fucked up?” 

“I mean, no more than usual?” 

Sal scrambles to run back into his apartment when Larry makes a playful grab for him, the two of them dashing into the open door of 402. You’re still a little startled and shaken; the heaviness has vanished from your back, but you can’t just bounce back as easily as the other two. You step forward, cautiously, unsure if you’re welcome without Larry or Sal guiding you in. 

You can hear their heavy footfalls and the shouting of ‘ _Get your tiny ass over here!’_ and _‘Try and catch me first!’_ from inside. You sidle awkwardly at the door and try not to jump ten feet in the air as the door swings open proper. Sal’s half-bent over, staring up at you. In the apartment's light and the hallway, you can see his eyes. 

They’re blue. Not icy or vibrant, but... Blue. You can’t explain why, but it catches you off-guard, a hand outstretched to rest on the doorframe. 

“Come on in,” Sal says. It sounds like he’s smiling underneath his prosthetic. It lasts for a beat before Larry’s swung his arms around Sal’s neck and thrown both himself and his friend backwards, the two landing with a crash on the ground. 

You’re careful to hop over the wrestling duo, making sure they don’t knock into you as you pace away. “Hey, don’t drag me into it!” You shout. You have to sidestep again as Sal knocks Larry back, the dark-haired teen somersaulting from the force and barely avoiding from taking your legs with him. 

Gizmo leaps onto the couch to get away from the tussle and you’re quick to join the cat, yanking your legs up onto the cushions. The boys tumble back and forth, yanking hair and shirts and yelling nonsense over each other. There isn’t a single moment where they actually throw punches or seem to hurt each other. It’s all playing. 

Sal is the one who taps out first. He waves one hand on his side, the other arm wrapped around his stomach as he wheezes out a few breaths. Larry falls flat on his back next to him in the living room, huffing as he catches his second wind. 

You wrap your arms around your legs and rest your chin on your knees, curled up as you are with Gizmo lazing next to you. “You guys done being weird?” 

“Never,” Sal’s response is instant. 

Larry cackles a bit and struggles up, hair in a loose tangle about his face from the rough-housing. “One thing about Nockfell, everything and everyone here is _weird_ ,” He holds up two fingers towards you. He’s grinning, but there’s a serious glint to his eyes that tells you he isn’t quite joking. “Hell, I bet you’re weird, too.” 

You think that that should insult you. Instead, the candid response has the ball of tension in your gut slowly loosening. You tilt your head so that your cheek presses against the tops of your knees and snort. “Alright, you got me. Not as weird as you two, though.” 

Larry laughs. You even hear Sal’s wheezing little breaths turn into something akin to raspy giggles as he forces himself up on his legs. “Here, hang on,” He waves his hand. “Let me go look in my room for the headphones. Lar, you mind staying out here?” 

Larry flashes Sal with a typical rocker devil-horn sign, a grin on his face. “Sure, dude. Think you can navigate your trashed room?” 

“Trashed?! Pot calling the kettle black, Lar-bear.” 

Sal walks down the hallway of his apartment, stepping into a door that must lead to his bedroom. You can hear shuffling and things moving as he searches for the spare set. As he does, you take off your old headphones and pop the connector that’s still in your CD player. 

Larry eyes it with a raised eyebrow. “What’cha got in there?” 

You blink in confusion. He leans over and taps his index finger on the screen reader of the player. “Which CD?” 

“Oh,” You turn it around and press the release on the cover. It flips upwards, and you tilt it so Larry can properly see. “Megadeth. It’s _Countdown to Extinction_.” 

You might as well have shown Larry the holy grail. His eyes get almost comically wide and he reclines back on his hands, giving you a look you can’t quite decipher. “You like metal?” 

“Yep,” You flick the player closed. “Metal, heavy rock, stuff like that. My dad got me into it when I was a kid. He got really into the scene when it hit again and I just kinda went along for the ride.” 

Larry nods. “You ever listen to Sanitys Fall?” 

“Uh... No?” 

“SAL!” Larry shouts. You jump a bit, scrambling to regain yourself and your seat on the couch. “Get the Sanitys Fall CD, dude!” 

Sal sticks his head out, pigtails swinging with the motion. “What? Why?” 

“Cause they’ve never heard it! C’mon, bring it out.” 

The smaller boy gives an exasperated sigh and a shake of his head, but disappears again behind the door. 

He's only gone a few more minutes before he walks back out, holding a chunky pair of white-and-blue headphones and a black CD case in either hand. "Here," He flops down by you on the couch, offering the headphones out to you. "Try these. I'm sorry they're bigger than the ones you had. Will they work?" 

"Yeah, I don't mind," You set the destroyed headphones to the side and _away_ from Gizmo's narrowed eyes. You take Sal's offered pair and fumble for a minute to find the aux plug, carefully inserting it and readjusting the volume on your player before hitting the play button. Still dangling in the palm of your hand, Megadeth starts absolutely blaring, starting from where it had cut out when you first found Gizmo. 

Larry's grin is practically ear-to-ear. You turn off the player and clear your throat, a little embarrassed at your musical tastes being on display. "Yep, works totally fine," You stand up quickly, startling both the boys and the cat, who leaps off of the couch and slinks into the kitchen. "Thank you. I think I need to get home, though. My mom wanted me back before dark," You tuck your CD player back into your hoodie and try not to let your nerves show. 

Sal stands just as quickly as he sat. He actually trips a bit as the tip of his converse catch on the carpet in his rush to follow you. "Oh, right, right. Here, we'll show you the way back." 

"I can find it myself." You try to wave him off, not wanting to trouble them any more than you already had. 

Larry stands up and slings his arm around Sal's neck and shakes him a bit, still grinning. "Let us make sure you get back. Nockfell might be small, but you still shouldn't walk alone at night. Besides, we can show you where the park is on our way there!" 

Your eyebrows furrow. "I didn't pass a park on my way here." 

Sal gives a small nod and tosses Larry's arm off. "It's around the corner from here. It's a bit of a round-about from here. You live at the Nockfell Homes development, right? It's just a giant circle, more or less. At least if you know the shortcuts." 

"Yeah," Larry snorts. "Cause otherwise it leads into the main district of town, and that gets confusing." 

You make a small face at their insistence but, eventually, cave in with the smallest of sighs. "Jeez, you guys really can't double-up on somebody like that. Make me feel guilty, why don't ya." 

Sal gives another little laugh and walks to your side to open the door for you. "Just trying to be friendly," He says. You step out and they follow you, Sal closing the door behind him. "Like I said before, I was the new kid here once. I don't mind helping out the newest-kid." 

You snort. The ride down to the first floor is, thankfully, easier than the ride up. No crawling feelings of dread and no creepy eyes staring at you. "Don't call me that, Sal." 

"Well, you're gonna need a nickname if you're gonna stick around here!" Larry argues. The air outside is colder than it was when you came inside the apartments. You can see your breath now, two frosty plumes from both yours and Larry's mouth steaming out. Sal's is caught in his mask. 

The smirk that tugs at your lips is practically vicious as you say, "Right, a cool nickname? Like Lar-bear?" 

Sal's laugh is loud and sharp in the crisp air as Larry squawks, throwing one hand out to the side as the three of you walk down the sidewalk and away from Addison Apartments. "Look, my mom gave me it, everyone else just calls me Lar!" 

"Or Larry Face," Sal offers helpfully. 

It only takes a few minutes to reach the park that the boys had been talking about. They're leading you in an odd, roundabout way, and promise to take you home after playing about the park. 

The Nockfell Memorial Park isn't anything special. It's really just a giant plot of grassy land, drying and dying with the oncoming seasonal change. The bare bones of what could be considered a playground are strewn in a nonsensical fashion; a mess of twisted iron for a jungle-gym, a half-rusted see-saw, a set of five swings and two slides. 

Sal and Larry clamber up the metal poles of the jungle gym. You stand at the base, staring at them, and wondering exactly how they talked you into this. “C’mon!” Larry ushers. He waves a hand from the top of the dome as Sal gets comfortable, the two of them balancing precariously on the iron bars. “I wanna show you the CD!” 

You sigh. You make sure your new chunky headphones are secure and that your CD player won’t flop out of your pocket before you grip onto the bars, beginning your climb. The metal is a little rusty, well-used and old. It leaves a gritty feeling on your palms as you struggle to the top, watching where your sneakers catch on the bars. 

You’re just starting to climb the curve in the dome when you stop, staring at the brown grass below with a grimace. You’ve never quite enjoyed climbing, and you could never swing across the monkey bars either when you were in elementary school. This is unnerving. You’re loathe to admit it to the two guys, but you don’t have to. 

Sal’s hand appears before you. When you glance up startled, he’s using one hand to keep his balance, and the other is outstretched, his blue eyes peering down at you. “Here,” He says. “I’ll help you up. Don’t worry, Larry and I won’t let you fall.” 

You don’t know why, but his words make you swallow and your eyes burn a bit. God, were you that starved for positive attention? You lift your left hand and grab Sal’s. When he levers himself back to pull you up, Larry grabs your corresponding shoulder and helps haul you in between him and Sal. 

Your legs swing unsteadily below you. Larry keeps a hold on you until you regain your balance and you don’t have to look at him to know he and Sal are both grinning. “Okay, so play number four. That’s _Singular_ , it’s mine and Sal’s favorite,” Larry waves at your pocket. 

You pull out your CD player and crank up the volume as high as it will go before replacing your Megadeth CD with the Sanitys Fall one. It’s not exactly a boom box, but Sal swore by the quality of the headset, so you’ll take a chance on it. You skip to the song and tilt your head. 

It starts off slowly, but the heavy guitar comes in within a few seconds. You stare out at the park, listening as the vocals come in hard and crackling, faint but still audible for the three of you through the headphones slung about your neck. 

Sal and Larry are watching you, gauging your reaction. You’re not sure why—but your fingers clench hard on the CD player and you bow your head for a second. Sal and Larry are silent. On the next chorus and heavy chord strum from the guitar, you swing your head up and then back down, beginning the most _aggressive _headbang you’ve done since your mother divorced your dad.__

__Larry gives a whoop by your side and mimics your movement, his long hair whipping back over his face. Sal’s quick to follow, though his pigtails swing side-to-side rather than flipping over his face like Larry’s. Your own bangs keep fluffing up and down with the air, but a tangle or two is a good price to pay for this. The complete song lasts maybe three minutes, but you keep it up the whole time, even when you get dizzy._ _

__When the song ends, you’re quick to press the pause button. Larry’s laughing as he smoothes his hair back from his face and blinks his eyes. “You like it?” He asks._ _

__You look to him and then to Sal. Sal leans over his knees a bit and watches you._ _

__“Fuckin’ choice,” Is all you can think of to say._ _

__The two boys laugh, loud and echoing in the dimming sunset of the park. You crack a smile and laughing along with them, unsure why but revelling in the moment's lightness. Life isn’t perfect—hell, you wouldn’t even say it’s good yet. But this is a moment you want to keep._ _

__Balancing uneasily on an old metal jungle-gym in a small park as the sun sets, painting everything in an orange glow, with two weirdos you met laughing up a storm with you bracketed between them._ _

__When Sal and Larry jump down, they help you. They both catch you when you leap from the top of the gym, your chest knocking against their shoulders and sending all three of you catapulting back into the grass. It only makes the three of you laugh louder, you facing the ground and the boys facing the sky._ _

__After, when you’ve all brushed the grass off and Sal and Larry are chattering away with you between them as they walk you home, Larry grins at you and Sal’s voice is warm._ _

__You know then, no matter what, you want to keep this. You want this little piece of _good_ to stay with you, whatever may come in your time at Nockfell._ _


	4. Walls of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being shorter and taking a different route than what I expected. Enjoy some soft Sal content.

For the rest of the following week, you found yourself in the company of Sal and Larry. You had to wait til they were out of school; but once they were free of both their classes and their resulting homework, they’d find you waiting at the park, sitting on the swing set with a new CD to share and, on one or two occasions, a packet of snacks. 

By the time your first Monday in Nockfell rolls around—and with it, your first day at your new school. Sal and Larry take you into their fold practically the moment you cross the school’s courtyard, introducing you to their group of friends. Todd, Neil, Ashley, Maple and Chug are all exceedingly welcoming; they bring you into the fold with as much ease as Sal and Larry welcomed you with. 

Most your week is a blur of learning the layout of your new school and getting caught up on the curriculum before the inevitable crush of holiday projects. Every lunch hour, you find yourself sandwiched at the preferred table and comfortably sequestered between two of your newly found friends. Even if you had actively tried to avoid them that first day, they constantly called to you the moment you entered the lunchroom, dragging you happily into their fold. 

You can’t say you disliked it. The group is warm and welcome. Even if you appeared prickly and cold, they took you in regardless. As much as you’d like to deny it, they’ve become your friends. Ashley shares her Polaroids with you while Todd goes over the latest in computer science. Maple and Chug are quieter, more concerned with food and relaxing during the brief period they have, but they’re indulgent with your presence all the same. 

And, along with this newfound sense of friendship, comes the inevitable generosity. By Wednesday, you offhandedly mention that you still haven’t decorated your room and that there are still boxes towering against your walls. Ashley is the one who excitedly extends an offer for help—one that all but Neil, Maple and Chug accept, citing previous plans and say that they’ll help you in some other way once everything has settled. 

That night, you run it by your mother. She seems to perk up at the idea of you collecting a group of friends so quickly and happily agrees to that. 

“Actually,” She sits down at the dining table. “You can have them over for the night! The moving company still has some things of ours that got lost in the move. Can you believe that? Rickie and I are going to have to leave Friday morning, and we probably won’t be back ‘til Sunday night.” 

Rick sputters around his mug. “Are you joking? What were these kids’ names again?” 

You roll your eyes and shove a forkful of lasagne in your mouth. He knows their names, you’ve only said it four times. Sure enough, while you’re chewing, he recites them. “Larry, Todd, Sally and Ashley?” 

“Sally _Face_ ,” You correct him. You stab your food with your fork and bite back a nasty comment about your step-father’s intelligence. 

“You want to have a sleepover with two boys and two girls? What kind of racket are you trying to pull on me, kid?” 

“Sally Face,” You say flatly. “Is a boy. And I didn’t say I wanted a sleepover, Mom just said that I could.” 

You pick up your glass of milk and take a long sip, trying not to smirk as your mother immediately rounds on Rick for his balking. “Enough, Rickie! Can’t you see this is good for us? We’re adjusting to town and our baby is making friends!” Her voice is bitter and the red flush that comes across Rick’s face is _not_ a good sign. 

When Rick slams his hands on the table, you recoil, and it just spurs your mother on even more. Your heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing, and your eyes glance from one shouting face to another as panic surges high. You’re waiting for Rick to raise a fist, an open-palm, for his chair to surge back as he stands. It never comes. 

It’s a full-blown fight by the time you can scamper back into your half-made room, but before you go to bed hours later, your mother happily swings open your door and says, yes, you CAN have all four of your friends over for the weekend. Rick might not be happy about it, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care. 

By Saturday morning, your mother is long gone, and so is Rick. You find peace in the quiet and don’t think twice about leaving your room for food or drinks and revel in the ability to leave your door open. 

You’re in the middle of laying down plastic sheets over your bed and wooden dresser set when the knocks start on your front door. Larry and Ashley had been going on about bringing their paint sets to help with the one plain-white wall you had in your room, and you really don’t want to have to explain to your mother and Rick why there are paint splatters all over your bedspread and dresser. 

You pause your CD, drop your headphones around your neck, and hurry to the front door. When you swing it open, your new group stands there, all of them idling with plastic bags in hand and overnight canvases on their backs. “Hey!” Ashley’s the first to breech the doorway. She greets you with the accepted greeting you’d imposed by bumping your elbows together with a bright grin. She’s pulled her hair into a messy bun, and paint brushes are sticking out of the pockets on her backpack. “Are you ready for us to totally wreck your room?” 

Todd is the next in. He adjusts his glasses and greets you. “She’s joking, of course. We will not wreck your room,” The red-head sends Ashley a fondly exasperated look. “Ashley and Larry brought paints for your wall. They’ve been talking designs the whole time.” 

“Hell yeah we have,” Larry reaches out and ruffles your hair despite your hiss and swing at his stomach. It doesn’t connect, and he’s grinning with a smug, self-assured grace. “You’re gonna have the coolest wall this side of Nockfell.” 

Sal is the last to sidle up to you, opening the plastic bag to allow you a peek inside. Shrink-wrapped packs of plastic stars and crescent moons are haphazardly strewn at the bottom. “I remember you said you wanted these,” He says, voice soft. “Figured, we could stick them over your bed.” 

It’s your second gift from Sal. The headphones are still warm around your neck. You scratch at your jaw, trying your damnedest not to look pleased, and motion for the group for them to follow you into the house after closing the door behind them. “I already got some tarps down. You guys can go wild. Todd, I know we were talking video-game setups. The systems are in the box by the dresser.” 

It’s a veritable stampede. Ash and Larry don’t waste any time, dumping out their bags of paints, brushes and old oil cloths. They’re excitedly talking designs and shading as they both tie their hair up and pull out their artist palettes, daubing their paint on their palettes and tracing their fingers in nonsensical shapes against your white-plaster wall. 

Todd’s attention is instantly drawn to your SNES and Sega Genesis, tucked securely away with all of their wires and knick-knacks you didn’t bother trying to untangle. He seems confident in the way he unpacks them, deftly scooting away and avoiding a tossed tube of paint from Larry. 

Sal kicks his sneakers off into the corner of your room before clambering onto your bed, ripping open one of the plastic packs and beginning the painstaking process of lining stars above your headboard. There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to the patterns, but he’s a little too short to reach your ceiling, so the headboard and space above it is his chosen area. 

You idle awkwardly in the center of the room, looking between your little group of friends with a bemused sort of wonder. It’s not like you didn’t have your own little group of friends back in Florida, but this is... Different. You aren’t the type to make friends easily, and yet, here you are. Standing in the soft chattering and laughter of these people who quickly wormed their way into your life. 

“Hey!” Larry calls your name and pulls away from his position on the wall. He’s only just started, but there are already great swathes of purple, black and blue swirling away from where he’s taken his little niche of space. “You have your stereo, right? How about turning on one of your CDs?” 

“Just not Sanitys Fall!” Ash teases. She takes a hand that’s already smeared with black and silver paint, slapping the side of Larry’s gray band-tee. He howls a bit, but it’s mostly laughter, and he returns the favor by slapping his own handprint over one of her wet spots of paint. 

Todd recoils with a small yelp of “Not over here!” while the others laugh at his apparent misfortune. 

You move to your vanity and to the tiny black stereo player that lives atop it. It’s a cheap one, one of the tiny little portable players, but it works. A Metallica CD is the music of choice for the day. You toss your CD player and the headphones next to it before moving to help Todd, taking the boxes he’s emptied and breaking them down. 

You only last about fifteen, twenty minutes tops before the peaceful organization of your room is descending into chaos. Larry and Ash have quickly dissolved into slapping paint at each other, and when Ash stumbles back and Todd has to dodge her, his own hands swipe over one of the freshly colored spots on the wall and leaves a wet mark. 

Todd stands up slowly, staring down at his hands. He can’t touch your Sega _or_ your SNES with paint on his hands. He turns to stare at Ash and Larry; the former sprawling by your legs, staring at Todd with a wide, if nervous, grin. Larry’s halfway hunched over, arms outstretched, as if he’s getting ready to bolt. 

He does just that when Todd lunges at him, wetly painted hands outstretched, and goes booking it towards the door with a holler. “It wasn’t me, dude, I’m sorry!” 

Todd turns on Ash and she scrambles under his legs and dashes after Larry with a screech of delight. You start cackling as Todd takes off after all of them, the pounding of their feet in the halls adding to the harsh drumbeats from the CD. “Don’t get paint anywhere else in my house, or my mom will kill me!” You yell after them. 

You get three shouts and screams of response, all nonsensical and joyful. 

With a small shake of your head, you tilt your head up to the ceiling with Sal as he continues to make patterns across your wall. You decide to join him, kicking off your sneakers and clambering up after him, smoothing plastic stickers over the popcorned ceiling. It’s easier for you to reach, being a good head taller than the boy. 

“I’m glad you like these,” Sal murmurs. You almost don’t catch it, as quiet as he is in the music's din. “I was worried you’d think they were lame, or something.” 

“No!” You say. Your response comes a little too quick, a little too loud—it even startles Sal, his head snapping around to meet your gaze. You open your mouth, floundering, and continue to speak; much softer this time. “No, Sal. I love them. I’ve never been allowed to decorate my rooms before this, so this...” 

You look to your left. The drying paint now has three sets of handprints in the mess of nebula-like colors. The ceiling is almost full with three packets of glowing planets and stars. 

“This is nice,” You manage to get out. “I didn’t think I’d make friends so quickly after the move.” 

Sal crumples the plastic wrappers in his hand and tosses them above your head. They land somewhere behind you, probably missing the tiny trash can. “I’m not surprised. You’re nice,” He shrugs. 

You blink as you stare down at him. He’s moved his gaze to the ceiling, resolutely not looking at you. “Nice people draw good things to them. At least, I like to think so.” 

You’re not sure what to say to him. Instead of responding, you step off the bed. You make sure there aren’t any paint splatters on the hardwood before you rest your back against the floor. Sal leans over the side of the bed, his blue eyes reflecting in the afternoon light streaming in from your bedroom window. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking at the constellations we made. Tring to tell a story with them. All good constellations have stories and names.” 

There’s a soft rustle, and then Sal shoves off the bed with a soft thump and lands beside you. He stretches out along the floor, pigtails spreading on either side of his head. He’s to your left, closer to the bed, and rests his hands over his stomach. You both lay there, quiet and searching the fake stars. 

“That one,” Sal lifts his left hand and gestures to the corner of your made-up universe. “Is... Fatticus Catticus.” 

You snort. Sal’s voice sounds as if he’s grinning. “He flew up into the sky one day, eating moons and stars until his stomach burst. He ended up turning into the very thing he ate.” 

“Dark!” You say around a laugh. Sal joins in, his raspy laughter warming the small room. 

“Okay,” He tilts his head towards you. “Your turn. Tell me one.” 

You stare hard at your ceiling. Eventually, you make a vague gesture to the center of the starry expanse. “Solus Ocelle,” You say. “He was a spirit who was lonely. He was _so_ lonely, he eventually climbed a stairway to the stars. The stars offered to be his friends, so he stayed. And he eventually turned into a star so he’d never have to leave them.” 

Sal is quiet. He reaches over and idly tugs at the sleeve of your flannel shirt. You don’t know what the gesture means, so you turn your head and stare at him. His eyes meet yours without flinching. “That was nice,” He murmurs. It’s almost a whisper. “A lot more thought-out than Fatticus Catticus.” 

“How dare you, I loved Fatty Cat,” You argue. Sal’s laughter is enough to make you fall into giggles, turning on your side to clutch your stomach amidst your little fit. 

That’s how the other three find you, when they dash back in from their mad dash; curled on your sides, heads bent together, you and Sal dissolving into happy snickers and laughter. When you two can breathe again, you happily tell them about your made up constellations. 

Ash is the first one who grabs a brush, her white paint, and begins to draw a fat cat along the side of your wall. Larry draws a thin, slumped over figure surrounded by silver spots; while they do so, and Todd finally gets your Sega to flare to life with a triumphant crow, you and Sal hurry to slap your own handprints through the colorful wall before it can totally dry. 

There’s physical evidence of your friends, now, and of you. Even if someone were to repaint or re-paper the wall, your handprints will always be there, under layers of other colors and patterns, but never erased. 

The thought makes you feel warm. 

Hours later, as the sun is beginning its descent, your room is finally done. The wall is drying, fully painted as a coursing galaxy with tendrils of light and stars, and tiny figures scampering along the bottom of the trim. Todd kindly set up your entertainment center to be presentable, your games, consoles and controllers organized with more precision than you could muster. 

The four of you recline against the side of your bed, drying off paint-stained hands and staring as the stars begin their soft, promised glow-in-the-dark ability. “So,” Larry whistles. He takes his hair out of its makeshift ponytail and shakes it out. “Pennywise’s Penny Arcade?” 

“Hell yes,” Ash pushes off the bed, shooting you a thumbs up. “It’s got the best pizza in town.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Sal says flatly. 

“It has _cheap_ pizza and games that are easily exploitable for tickets,” Todd corrects, wiping the lenses of his glasses on his raglan t-shirt. 

Ash throws her hands in the air. “Same difference! We can all afford it. Your parents left you money, right?” 

You nod. You have two crisp twenty-dollar bills folded in the back of your jeans’ pockets. 

“Then let’s fuckin’ go!” Larry shoots up, throwing his arms in the air. “No better time than the present, right?” 

You shrug. You haven’t gotten the opportunity to explore most of Nockfell, so this is a good chance to get more acquainted with your surroundings. 

“Alright,” You agree. “You guys haven’t steered me wrong yet. Let’s get going.”


	5. Arcade Days (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out! I started a new job and it took a lot out of me just to get this written.

The Arcade is the same as every low-budged Chuck E. Cheese in Florida, if not cleaner and with well-maintained classic arcade cabinets. Oh, and the succinct lack of freaky carpet-clad animatronics. You’re glad of the last fact. You _hate_ those creepy things. 

“I’m _just_ saying,” You argue with Larry as the host of the restaurant leads you to a red pleather booth and matching vinyl table. “That if a giant rat wanted to give me a hug, I’d kick him in his cheese balls. I’m not letting some greasy-smelling thing touch me.” 

“It’s just a robot,” Larry stresses the last word. He sits down, squishing Sal between the two of you in the booth. Said boy does not look particularly amused. “It’s not gonna eat you. I’m pretty sure that they can’t even move out of their spot, aren’t their feet rooted on their stage?” 

You shoot him a sour look. He knows damn well that the point isn’t that they can’t move their _legs_. Larry cackles. 

Ashley just shrugs, flipping the plastic menu in her hands on the other side of Larry. Todd is resting next to her, resting his chin on his hands. “I mean, those wires and hinges can be dangerous, right? And electrical shock is still a thing.” She looks to Todd, who gives a tiny nod in agreement. 

Larry swings his arm over Sal’s head to catch the hood of your jacket in his hand to drag you closer. You barely avoid knocking your head against Sal’s, the boy ducking just in time and pressing his hand against your shoulder to help you keep your balance. “You know that’s not it! It’s a fear thing, like being afraid of clowns!” 

You slap your palm against Larry’s cheek, quickly engaging in an awkward game of tug of war. Sal’s an unfortunate levy to keep you from shoving Larry, and Larry from strangling you. 

“I’m not afraid of clowns! Have you seen those things’ exoskeletons? They’re horrifying! Todd, man, back me up!” 

Todd shrugs. He moves off the table to lean against the cushions of the booth, staring up at the multicolored lights strung across the rafters and ceiling. “I can understand the general uneasiness. Some people suffer from acute submachanophobia—I’d imagine it’s the same principle.” He pauses, noticing your intense, angry stare, and quietly adds: “Ash is also correct. There are any mechanics and wiring components that could lead to human error and injury.” 

“You’re agreeing with Ash, not me!” 

Sal pushes you down and Larry away, finally creating a decent amount of space between the three of you. “Look, Pennywise’s doesn’t even have animatronics, so the point’s moot anyway, isn’t it?” 

“Right!” Ashley agrees. “C’mon, let’s pick what pizza we want. I want to eat fast and go play games. They have a disco light at the prize counter and it _will_ be mine.” 

You roll your eyes and slump against the table, dragging your chipped nails against the ripped vinyl. The entire arcade is loud, a wild uprising and fall of various noises around the area. The group is gently arguing toppings for your pizza; you add in that you don’t really care, so long as there isn’t pineapple or anchovies. The anchovies are a mutually agreed thing; the pineapple starts another harsh round of debate that has you gently hitting your head against the table. 

By the time your server comes, a tired-looking mid-twenties something college student wearing a bright yellow-and-white uniform, you’ve all decided on half-pepperoni and half-mushroom, with a shared pitcher of soda between the table. 

As Todd said, the pizza is cheap, and when it arrives at your table, it has the heavenly smell of cheese and grease. You waste no time in shoveling the slices—one of each—into your mouth. The noises of the arcade swell again when you’re halfway through your second slice, and you can’t stop the twitch in your jaw as a dinner crowd floods in and add to the chaos. 

Screaming, rapid chatter and video-game blips are raising the hackles on the back of your neck. You’ve been doing great lately, and it’s been easier to mitigate your over stimulation with your friends. They’ve all noticed your issues with touch and sound, having been privy to one episode during your third lunch period, but they don’t seem to notice this time. You can’t blame them; they’re all excited, talking over the music and their food. 

Two children rush by your table. They can’t be over five or six years old, bright-eyed and red-cheeked. Their elbows knock against the corner of your table and almost upend your pitcher of Coca-Cola. Todd catches it before it spills, though it sloshes unsteadily and some soda spatters across the tabletop. The shouting from Larry and Ash—“Hey! Watch it, you’re gonna hit someone!”—and the screeching of the children sets your teeth on edge. 

The flashing cacophony of bright fairy lights, video-game graphics, the kitschy Top 40 radio blaring across the intercoms— 

You drop your pizza crust to your plate and are about to slap your hands over your ears, try to drown out the noise and put your head between your knees— 

Sal saves the day. Of course he does. You’d brought your CD player, simply out of habit, but Sal notices your tics and snatches the headphones hanging around the back of your neck. He leans across the side of the table so he can stare at you, hooking them around your ears. There’s no music playing, but the headphones are thick enough to muffle the sound. 

It’s a white static noise instead of an overwhelming wave. It takes a moment for you to come down from the awful high, but you slump down over the table, hands resting over the ears of the headphones with a grateful murmur to Sal. 

He simply pats your head. You can’t quite hear what everyone’s saying after that, but you glance up in time to see Ashley giving you a concerned look and a tentative thumbs up. 

You return it. She seems to relax with that and turns her head, presumably to relay the news to Larry and Todd. The other two boys look put at ease with that, Larry reaching over to gently tap the headphones as Todd mops up the spilled soda with your pile of napkins. 

The group takes their time to finish their food and you take your sweet time in readjusting to the muffled quiet filtering in through your headphones. It’s only when you notice the empty tray that you, tentatively, pop one ear up on your headphones. 

It’s still loud, of course. You can’t get away from the rapid pinball machine chimes. But the sound isn’t sending you into a wild panic, at least. You sigh, sit up, and tug the headphones down. There’s a small pit in your stomach at the idea of the others coddling you, taking pity on your little tantrum, but of course that never happens. 

“You good?” Sal asks. 

You nod. 

And that’s that. Todd gets out of the booth first, and you’re quick to follow since you’re on the opposite end. The four of you convene in a small circle, making sure you leave nothing that might get stolen on the table. 

“So,” Larry tosses his arm around Ashley’s neck and drags her close. “I’ve got this place down to a system. I know exactly how to get us the most tickets!” 

Todd shakes his head. “He cheats at skee-ball,” He tells you. “I’m more interested in the new Street Fighter and X-Men game they’ve finally ported out.” 

“Don’t they have Mortal Kombat here?” Sal asks, standing on his tiptoes to survey the whole of the arcade. You try to follow his gaze. It’s a veritable labyrinth of bright, primary-colored games and claw machines. You’re not even sure where to start. 

Ashley grabs Larry’s shoulder with her hand and sways the two of them, grinning. “You guys can go play arcade games if you want, Larry and I are gonna wreck the shit out of the ticket machines! I’m getting that disco light!” 

There’s a soft call of your name, and you turn to face Todd. “Where do you want to go?” He asks. You shrug, glancing between the four of them and then lifting your gaze to the token wonderland. 

“I think I’ll just poke around by myself for a bit, see what games they’ve got here,” You say. You wave at your friends and tug your headphones around your head just as a precaution. “Who’s got the tokens?” 

Todd doles them out, ten per person, all carefully counted and parceled into neat little stacks. The others scatter in their groups of two. Larry and Ashley go left, Sal and Todd to the right, so you’re left with the center-most lane. 

Not that it matters. As you begin your trek through the floor plan of Pennywise’s, you realize something awful. _It’s easy to get lost in here_. The walls of arcade games block views of the other rows. You pass shooting games with fake rifles, a classic Donkey Kong and Space Invaders cabinet, and several claw machines with cheap, over-priced plushies gathered in the bottom. 

You rub your knuckles, glad for the foresight of putting your headphones on. The noises are muffled, and it’s easier to navigate. You’re not really sure what you want to do yet and mull over your choice as you press play on your CD player. 

There’s a line of claw machines that line the section further down, and you decide that it’s your best bet to get something out of your paltry token haul. You don’t have enough faith in your gaming abilities to get a prize with tickets, so this way you might win something to hang in your freshly decorated room. 

The first one that catches your eye is an off-brand Halloween claw machine. Within the black-and-orange casing, you can see stuffed animals and keychains galore, all modeled after classic movie-monsters and myths. You think for a moment, shrug, and fish out a handful of your tokens to slip into the machine. 

It’s hard to focus. There’s sweat on your palms, and you keep slipping with the joystick every time a screech from a nearby kid echoes out. Of course it’s noisy, it’s an arcade on a Saturday, you know that. But it doesn’t stop your heart rate from going wild, and it definitely doesn’t stop every flinch that makes you press the button on the claw machine too fast. 

“Hey, what’s that?” A little girl skips by your legs. She’s talking to her friend and swinging the other girl’s hand in tandem with their skips. It would be cute, if they hadn’t walked too close and made you press against the machine and fuck up your fourth try at the stupid werewolf keychain. 

You take a second and wipe your hands on your jeans. When you glance over, attention diverted, you see the two girls are peering at a sectioned off area against the furthermost wall of the room. There’s a long curtained off area, a strip of red against the sea of multicolored carpet and old wallpaper, held up with bronze rings against a white plastic rod. 

There’s a big white sign taped to the fabric that says _Employees Only_ in permanent marker. 

“Must be a new ride!” The other girl chirps. “But we can’t go in there yet. C’mon, let’s go get more pizza.” 

When they bustle off, you turn back to your claw machine and cringe as a loud ring and screams follow in the air. Someone just won a jackpot at one machine. You think you can hear Larry whooping vaguely in the distance, but your brain is frying and your fingers are trembling. 

You play one more game, determined not to leave the arcade without something to show for it, and you can’t even muster up a smile when you finally snatch the small plush keychain of the wolfman you’d been aiming for. 

You bend down to snatch it out of the machine and almost lose your arm when, behind your own machine, another child groans in defeat and rocks the game. “C’mon, gimme the stupid prize! Rigged piece of junk.” 

You’ve decided you have had _enough_ \--your anxiety has only been steadily building since you separated from the group, and you’ve finally reached the breaking point. Sweaty palms, racing heart, acute paranoia that you’re being watched; it’s far too much to handle on your own, and you’re ready to seek the safety of the table once again. Maybe sitting down and getting a drink will help. 

At this point, it’s the only thing you can think of that _could_ help. Your CD player has been blaring your 11-song Metallica disk the entire time, and it hasn’t eased your nerves. 

When you turn, shoving the leftover tokens and newly won keychain into your pant pockets, you’ve sealed your unfortunate fate. 

It’s those same damn kids that ran into your table earlier that bring your downfall; literally. They’ve got candy clutched in their hands, pink syrup smeared over their faces in a mock rendition of war paint as the taller one nearly bodies you in his rush to pass, his shoulder jamming hard into the soft side of your belly. 

You think you might puke up your dinner for a second. He sends you tripping backwards, heels of your sneakers catching on the old carpet and legs crumpling beneath you. You throw your arms out to catch yourself against, and mid-fall, your CD player dumps out of your jacket pocket and lands hard on the ground with a clatter, disconnecting from your headphones’ aux cord which now swings freely by your chest. 

You fall firmly onto your ass despite your efforts, head and back knocking painfully into the metal cabinet of the claw machine as your hands clutch the sides of the machine. 

Through watering eyes, you watch as the second kid chases after his buddy, the toe of his sneaker ramming into your player. Logically, you know it’s not on purpose; it just got caught in the crossfire. You find your voice echoing out with an angry curse at the kid as it goes skidding across the outdated carpet, and spins right under that damn curtain. 

The kids don’t stop and vanish around the line of machines, their laughter mixing in with the rest of the ambient sounds of the arcade. 

You’re not about to lose your damn CD player out of fear of an _Employees Only_ sign. You’ll be quick about it; slip under the curtain, get your player, and find Larry so he can chase down those brats for an apology. 

Once your world stops spinning, you push up and off of the claw machine, hand against your forehead. At this rate, you’re going to have brain damage before you hit eighteen, all thanks to Nockfell, and it’s lovely animal and child population. 

You glance around and make sure there aren’t any employees in their neon-yellow vests hanging around before you cross the small distance to the curtained off area, reaching out to grab the fabric in your hands. 

It feels cheap and smells of must and mothballs. When you drag it to the side and stick your head in, you squint into the emptiness ahead of you. There’s only one light in the darkness; straight ahead, far off in the corner, the soft red glow of an emergency exit sign. When the curtain swings back behind you, it closes you off from the rest of the arcade, and you suddenly feel uncomfortably **alone**. The sounds of games and children are dimly muted in the distance. 

It feels as if you’ve closed the door between two entirely separate worlds. You really want to leave. Not just the room, but the whole damn arcade by this point. You shake your head and fist your hands against your flannel, steeling yourself. You’re not leaving your CD player. No way in hell. 

You take a breath to steady yourself and slowly move down onto your knees, hands outstretched to balance across the ground and feel across it. Your player couldn’t have gotten too far out. 

You find, as your fingers trace over grooves and indents, that the flooring is different in this area. It isn’t the stiff feeling of old, crusty carpet that’s seen too many spilled drinks and dirty shoes. Instead, it feels like a newly installed flooring; flat, polished hardwood. You briefly remember the construction sign with Pennywise’s logo slapped on the other side of the curtain. It’s probably an in-construction area for a new game or kiddie ride. Really, you don’t _care _. The disconnect of the entire area is sending shivers down your spine and you want to be out.__

__When your fingers touch something rounded and plastic, the shudder of unadulterated relief courses through you. You yank your player up against your chest, trembling fingers rapidly tracing along the side and buttons of the machine. It doesn’t feel cracked, or at least, not irreparably._ _

__You fumble with your auxiliary cord, finding the jack in between your fingers and hurriedly plugging it into the player. After a moment of rapidly clicking the PLAY/PAUSE button, Metallica blares out of the headphones in a tinny chorus._ _

__You slip down from your knees onto the seat of your pants, bringing your knees up to your chest and hugging your player to your chest. You could cry; it still works! The CD might skip more, sure, but it’s still playable, and that’s what matters._ _

__You throw one hand out to catch your weight when you rock back a little too far, eyes closing into a more familiar and softvdarkness as you just take a moment to bask in the anxiety flooding out of your body._ _

__Once your legs don’t feel like jelly, you’ll get up. For now, your fingers curl into the carpet, squeezing synthetic fibers to find some sort of comfort—_ _

__Wait... No._ _

__The floors are hardwood. You can feel the unforgiving flat surface beneath your thighs._ _

__Slowly, your fingers splay out and you press all of your weight from the palm of your hand to the tips of your fingers as you feel out whatever is underneath you. The fabric you’ve been touching refuses to give, but it isn’t a smooth area. It’s harder, covering grooves and odd curves, sharp indents poking out in certain places, creating an odd, oval-like shape, and—_ _

__Hold on. Wait, no, is—it’s—are you _touching a foot_? _ _

__Your eyes snap open. You’ve begun to slowly adjust to the darkness, and now you can make out vague shapes in the shadows. You turn back onto your knees and rise, tilting your head to one side. You can only make out a strange, rectangular shape, and it doesn’t offer any sense of comfort to see something looming in front of you. Your instincts are screaming at you to scramble out of there and never look back._ _

__You, instead, sit there with your panic rooting you to the spot, staring into a void._ _

__When two white pinpricks of light flicker to life a good five feet above your head, you hope against hope that maybe an employee has wandered in with some weird double-pronged flashlight and is going to kick you out._ _

__Of course, though, it isn’t. Why would you be that lucky?_ _

__You stare on in utter horror as the lights flicker, shake, and crane down to you. It’s like a little searchlight, and it illuminates the thing staring at you, because it is most definitely a THING._ _

__There’s a long snout, thin plastic wires dangling from the tip of what must be a nose. The lights are eyes, spiraling and circling before seeming to thin down into just little dots in the dark. The whole thing seems to shake and twist as it shifts back on awkwardly cocked legs, and you think you can see a tail. Its matted fur, a gradient of black-gray-white, shudders with the activation of the thing. It looks like it has thrown a rug over a strange, metal mannequin, too tight and too loose in different areas, all tucked into a dirtied pair of denim coveralls._ _

__“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” You whisper. “A _possum_?” _ _

__When the thing shifts its head, you can feel bile rising in the back of your throat in the pre-emptive attempt to vomit. Then, it’s lower hinge drops open with a shaking click of mechanical whirs, and you can count the razor-sharp line of spaced out teeth in its maw._ _

__By the time the odd, static-lined voice garbles out something that sounds like a pre-recording of a demon gargling salt water and acid, you’ve already spun around on your feet and finally go running for the curtain. When you trip in your panic, you fall face-first onto the hardwood, but that doesn’t stop your mad scramble to the curtains, fingers reaching out to latch onto the dusty fabric._ _

__There’s a shudder beneath the wood under you. You roll onto your back, feeling the sweat already beading down your back and sticking your bangs to your forehead. The possum is shifting with mechanical grinding and groaning, like its entire body is snapping into place. Your mouth drops open, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and it lumbers one step towards you._ _

__“ ** _Hul-ll-hullooo—fr-fr-friend!_** “ _ _

__You yank at the curtain. A thin sliver of light from the arcade peers into the room, a fluorescent-yellow ray spilling across the wood and onto the horrifying, ratty machine that has its eyes stuck on you._ _

__“ ** _Myyuh-myyy-name!_** “ It lifts one hand, three-clawed fingers curled and raising as if it’s lifting a hat. There is no hat, and your eyes focus on those too-sharp mechanical monstrosities with no small amount of fear. “ ** _Is Pr-Puh-Presley Possum! What’s yo-yo-yours?!_** “ _ _

__There’s another full-bodied shudder from the thing as it bows over at the waist, as if the lines holding it have been cut. Its hands drag against the floor, and for a split second, you feel the tension vanishing from your body. Maybe you just activated it with a touch on accident. Maybe it’s just a gross, creepy work-in-progress animatronic._ _

__You jolt and yank at the curtain again, nearly ripping it from its holders, as the possum instead shoots its head up, the hard metal crackling in a discordant symphony as it slowly twists its face until its upside down, the mouth propping open once more as a plastic tongue drapes over the top layer of its teeth. “ ** _It used to be Elijah._** “ _ _

__You scream. Of course you scream; yes, it’s partly in fact that the thing just talked in a voice that sounded too much like a small child’s rather than the robotic recording, but it’s also because two arms shoot out from the small opening you’ve created in the curtain._ _

__They wrap around your chest, hook under your arms, and yank you back and out of the nightmare room you’ve been sitting in. You don’t struggle—really, anything human would be very much appreciated by this point—and instead turn around to latch onto the person, kicking against the carpet of the arcade to get as much space between you and the animatronic as possible._ _

__The curtains swing shut, and nothing comes out for you._ _

__Sal ends up spread out on the floor with you, his legs bracketed around your back as you clutch onto his back for dear life. His arms are wrapped around your shoulders, squeezing tight, and you’ve never been happier to see his prosthetic in the short time you’ve known him. You open your mouth as you lift your eyes to his, about to tell him what you saw, you pause._ _

__Sal’s eyes are comically wide behind his mask, and he’s staring at the curtains. He _saw_. _ _

__“Did you hear what it said?” You croak._ _

__He shakes his head. “It was looking at you. It was about to crawl.”_ _

__It’s unwanted information, and the fear just spikes into a shudder down your spine. You press impossibly closer to Sal and tuck your head under his jaw. Your hatred for invasion of personal space is absolutely demolished by the need for comfort. Sal just lets you cling to him. He takes a minute to scoot back further from the curtains until he presses his back against one of the many machines in the area, staring at the _Employees Only_ sign as if he’s waiting for it to explode. _ _

__Honestly, you might be._ _

__“I thought there weren’t any animatronics here,” You croak. You still have your face buried against the collar of Sal’s black sweater. You don’t have to see your knuckles to know that they’ve blanched white against his back; there’s a numbing ache spreading across your fingers that tells you as much._ _

__Sal shakes his head. “There isn’t supposed to be.”_ _

__“So what the hell was that?”_ _

__There’s silence between you two. After the shaking in your legs has finally stopped, Sal stands up and drags you with him. You use his shoulders to steady yourself and have enough presence of mind to check for your CD player. It’s, thankfully, stayed in your jacket pocket. You’d barely noticed what you’d done with it in your panic. It’s cracked along the top, but only a hairline fracture and you’re at least happy with that._ _

__Sal grabs your wrist. His voice is low, and he glances back over at the curtain. “Come on. We need to get the others.”_ _

__“What?” You follow him regardless, maneuvering quickly between running children and the rows of games._ _

__Sal just shakes his head and looks over his shoulder. “You looked like you were gonna cry. And you asked me if I heard what it said, which means it said something that freaked you out, right?”_ _

__You give a reluctant nod._ _

__“Then let’s get the others and figure out what the hell happened.”_ _

__You can’t find it in your heart to argue with him, and you nod again. You can see Todd’s fluffy hair in the distance; he and the other two are at a skee-ball machine. He’s apparently scolding Larry and Ashley, both of whom are clambering atop the machine to throw the balls directly into the center most bullseye._ _

__“Sal?” You ask._ _

__He hums in response._ _

__“Thank you. You keep finding weird ways to save me.”_ _

__He sounds confused when he answers you, slowing his steps. “Save you? I mean, if count this time, isn’t it only the first?”_ _

__“No,” You glance down at where he’s holding onto your wrist. His grip has been gentle, if firm, guiding you along with no hesitance in touching you. “I count all the times you’ve already saved me from my anxiety too.”_ _

__Sal comes to a stop and you stand motionless by his side. He turns to look at you. His eyes are serious, and you can only imagine his lips are set into a thin line in displeasure. “It’s not a chore to help you out,” He says, impossibly soft. “I know what it’s like. You’ve got friends now, even if it’s only been a week or two. Don’t think that we don’t care.”_ _

__You nod, unable to form words, and simply glance up when the others have noticed your presence and come to join you._ _

__“Sal, there you are. When you said you’d be right back, it worried me you were taking so long,” Todd’s holding a carefully folded pile of tickets, but the self-assured smile on his face fades when he looks between the two of you. “What happened?”_ _

__Sal shakes his head. “Let’s go back to the table. Something weird happened.”_ _

__“Weird?” Larry asks, cautiously. He’s holding his own armful of tickets, these in a messy tangle across his elbows. “How weird?”_ _

__“Addison apartments weird,” Sal affirms._ _

__The silence that follows you all back to the table is deafening._ _


	6. Arcade Days (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter until I can get to the really spooky bits.

The silence that pervades the area isn’t comforting. Your fingers still have an uncomfortable tremor in them as Sal pours you the watered down dregs of the cola from the pitcher into your empty cup. You chug down the soda and refuse to meet anyone else’s eyes. Sal stays firmly settled by your side; Ashley has taken up what had been Larry’s space, watching you with the utmost concern. 

You keep repeating the last sentence that awful thing said, and how the distorted recording sounded too clear, too _human_ to be something from a studio. 

“So,” Larry tries. “You gonna tell us exactly what happened?” 

“There shouldn’t be animatronics here,” You say. You stare hard at the bottom of your glass and wipe your mouth with the back of your palm. “You guys all said so. There aren’t supposed to be, they don’t have that gimmick here.” 

“They don’t,” Todd affirms. “I’ve come here for many a children’s birthday party and not once have I ever seen something like that here.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sal reaches out to touch your shoulder. He pauses, and when you nod, he rests his hand against your arm. It helps ground you. You’re not insane; Sal saw the same damn thing, and even if he didn’t hear it talk, you knew he believed you. He saw the thing try to crawl and you know very well that animatronics that sing and play fake instruments don’t _crawl_. “There’s definitely at least one here. It looked like a raccoon, or something.” 

You grimace. “A possum,” You correct. “It called itself Presley Possum, at first.” 

“At first?” Ashley says. There’s a frown marring her face, and her eyes are constantly flicking between you, Sal, and the other two boys. You’d since gathered that Ashley was the resident skeptic between your odd little friend group, so maybe she found this harder to swallow than Sal did. She wasn’t saying you were lying, but you could certainly tell that she was on the fence about believing your story. 

Larry holds up his hands. His nose scrunches up, mouth pulled into a firm grimace. “Wait, stop. Just tell us what happened from the beginning, when we all separated and you went off by yourself.” 

You drag your hands down your face and take a minute to breathe. You press the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth and time your inhales and exhales. It’s supposed to help soothe your anxiety; you’ll take what you can get, even if it isn’t much. You force yourself to talk, revising the brief trip into hell you’d suffered from. 

The others stay silent. Larry’s face twists and falls. Ash reaches over and, with your permission, gently checks the back of your head for bumps that may have come from your collision with the machine. Todd steeples his hands by his mouth and stays silent for the entirety of your tale. By the time you’ve surmised your experience, the table is silent, and the anxiety crawling up and down your spine has nothing to do with the loud noises surrounding your group. 

“I saw it, too,” Sal adds after a beat. “There was something there. The way it was moving wasn’t normal, either.” 

Todd leans back against the pleather cushions of the booth. He drags his cup to him and pulls out the straw, snapping it in various places as he mulls over the white plastic. “The arcade isn’t supposed to have an animatronic here,” He says. “And this curtain wasn’t always here in the building, was it?” 

“No way,” Larry affirms. “Sal and I came here a couple of times while his dad went on a business trip back to New Jersey last summer. The curtained off thing is definitely new. So is this weird animatronic. I mean, the mascot of this place is just a dirty penny! When could they have afforded some weird, dirty animatronic?” 

You tap your fingers against the table. You don’t want to think about it. Why are you even talking about it? You should’ve packed up and gone home, tickets and prizes be damned. 

Sal leans forward. He rests his elbows on the tabletop and glances between the rest of you. His voice is low, barely heard across the small space. “What if they couldn’t afford it?” 

Ashley cocks an eyebrow. “Obviously they can, Sally. It’s here.” 

The boy shakes his head. “There are other ways to get stuff rather than buying it brand new. It could be refurbished.” 

Todd frowns. His straw splinters down the side, and he fiddles with the peeling bits. “Re-skinned animatronics aren’t exactly unusual,” He says. “So it is extremely likely that another business with an arcade went down the drain, and Pennywise’s bought it at an auction.” 

“Or,” You grumble. “Someone donated it.” 

Ashley shudders. “Let’s hope they bought it at the auction. I don’t wanna think about the type of person who would own a _haunted_ animatronic.” 

You look up in time to see Larry shooting glances at both Todd and Sal, who return them in equal fervor. You frown, but there really isn’t any time to properly focus on the weird looks at hand. Instead, you decide that you’ve had enough. 

Your hands catching on the tabletop finally draws everyone’s attention. You try not to let your voice quaver, but it’s hard. The tremble cracks your voice. “Can we please just get out of here and get back to my house? I don’t care who got the thing or why it’s here, I just want to get out and go home.” 

There’s another beat of silence. Four pairs of eyes are on you. Ashley stands from the table first, reaching out to you and wrapping her right arm over your shoulders while her left hand comes to rest on your bicep. She’s supporting you and comforting you in one-go. You allow it, if only because the pressure keeps you from feeling like you want to peel off your skin. 

“Yeah, of course. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. We just have to pay at the counter, then we can bail.” 

You nod. 

The boys stand up after Ashley guides you out of the booth. They stay quiet as they flank the two of you, though you think you can hear muted mumblings between the three. 

You’re past caring at this point. 

You fish out one of your twenty-dollar bills to pass to Ashley. Sal, Larry and Todd each pass you a handful of dollars to make up for their portion of the pizza. Ashley pats your arm and, with a promise to pay the tip herself, darts off to the front counter to pay for her food. 

Larry and Sal go to the prize counter attendant just adjacent, presumably to swap their small ticket hoard for a suitable prize for Ashley. 

It leaves you and Todd standing there. You’re arguably the most distant to Todd out of the entire group, finding it hard to connect with him other than your limited shared interest in technology. You prefer video-games and stereos and the services they can provide, not so much the technical output of it all. 

Todd surprises you by reaching out to gently touch your arm. “We believe you,” He states. He’s not looking at you, but dead ahead, staring at a fixed point that you can’t follow. “We—the group and I—we’ve seen our fair share of oddities around Nockfell. This isn’t beyond the realm of possibilities.” 

You wipe at the sweat beading across your cheek. “Sal said something about the animatronic being ‘Addison Apartments Weird’. Do you know what that means?” 

Todd’s eyes finally slide to meet yours. “Have they not told you about the apartments?” 

You cross your arms. “Chug’s mentioned that it’s haunted. I didn’t really put any stock into it. It’s Chug. He got scared of a diagram in biology because it was anatomically accurate.” 

The red-head inhales sharply. He pulls his hand back and awkwardly scratches at the underside of his jaw. He’s glancing between the two counters, looking for a way out, and you grit your teeth. 

“Todd,” You step in front of him and place your hands on your hips. You don’t feel like playing games in this damn arcade anymore. “What’s going on at the apartments?” 

He grimaces. He adjusts his glasses and shakes his head with a sigh. “Look, it’s really not my place to say. Just... Things have gone on in the apartment complex that are beyond the realm of ‘normal’. Haven’t you ever noticed anything... Strange?” 

You open your mouth to deny it. 

You’re unable to. Try as you might, you can still vividly remember your first ~~and only~~ foray into Sal’s apartment, and the horrifying neighboring door. You can still recall the smell of rot and urine if you try hard enough. 

Apparently, your silence is all the confirmation that Todd needs. He crosses his arms and settles back awkwardly on his heels. “I know it’s a little hard to take in. Ash doesn’t quite believe it all, herself. But it’s possible that something preternatural is going on here.” 

You scrub at your eyes. “And you think it has something to do with Addison Apartments?” You ask. Your voice is still quavering, weak and exhausted. You want to go to sleep. “Todd, that’s stupid. There’s nothing connecting the apartment complex with this stupid arcade.” 

“Not that we know of,” Todd argues. “But, I agree that a connection is extremely unlikely. It’s more plausible that all of Nockfell is just plagued with these oddities.” Todd reaches out and rests his hand on your shoulder with minimal hesitation. 

You’re not sure what else to say, so you settle for saying nothing. By the time the others come back, Ashley with your change and the boys with a boxed disco light, Todd’s hand has slipped from your arm and you’re rocking back and forth on your heels. 

Ashley slips you the handful of ones and coins. Sal and Larry hand her the disco light, but she doesn’t seem nearly as happy to receive it as she was when you all first entered. 

You probably only spent three hours in the arcade. You know the group was hoping to stay later, but you’re glad to leave. The fall days are getting shorter and shorter; there’s barely any sunlight to guide the five of you back to your house from the darkened sidewalks. 

Larry tries to fill the air with inane chatter. School things, asking if anyone is up to watching a movie on your living room TV, prattling on about how he definitely scored more points than Ashley on the skee-ball game. 

Ashley is the only one who tries to follow up with any actual substance. You, Sal and Todd exist in a stilted silence. Sal refuses to lift his head up, and he hasn’t spoken a word since the group left the arcade. Todd tilts his head to make it look like he’s listening in on the conversation between Ashley and Larry, but his eyes are far-off and glazed. 

You shove your headphones over your head and press the play button on your newly cracked CD player. Metallica’s third song keeps skipping the first chorus, and by the time you’ve all finally breached your front porch, your frustration has you in near tears. 

What should have been a fun night out turned into a tension-filled nightmare. 

The group seems to collectively decide that sleeping in your bedroom is not the best idea. The paint is still drying, and the room smells faintly of paint fumes still. 

Ashley drags blankets and pillows and Larry’s sleeping bag to the center of the living room. She’s intent on making a nest, it would seem, because when you try to grab your fluffy, horse-decorated blanket, she shoos you away. “I’m working!” She lightly slaps your hand. “Don’t worry about me! Go help Sal with the snacks!” 

“We’re having snacks?” You grumble. You didn’t think you’d zoned out so much in the short time you’d walked across the front doorstep. Regardless, you turn and head towards your kitchen, passing Larry and Todd as they surround your living room TV and mess with your VCR player. 

Sal’s only just entered your kitchen ahead of you, peering into one of your kitchen cabinets. You tap his shoulder. “We’ve got a pantry. You guys aren’t seriously hungry again after all that, are you?” 

You’re certainly not. 

Sal looks at you and shrugs, tugging his left pigtail with the corresponding hand. He’s obviously still put-off by the whole... _Possum_ thing. “Not really. But you can’t have a movie night without popcorn or chips.” 

The thought of greasy popcorn sours your stomach. You move to the side of your fridge and pry open the creaky door to rifle through the meager contents of your snack cabinet. Sal’s almost surprised when you toss two bags of chips at him, but he catches both with a slight fumble. 

He tilts his head down and folds the top of the chip bags over. “Original and... Salt and Vinegar?” 

You take the blue bag from him and shrug. “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it. We’ve got cans of cola in the fridge if you weirdos want some.” 

Ashley squawks at you when you flop your happy ass down on a precariously placed pillow. “Hey! I wasn’t done there!” 

“My house, my pillow, my new snack spot,” You retort. 

Sal comes back with the other bag of chips and an entire six-pack of bottled cola. On a base level, you understand that this is their way of trying to comfort and calm you down. Normal teenager things after a decidedly non-normal night. 

Larry and Todd have decided, after prowling through your VHS collection, to pick a rather eclectic mix. You see a _Nightmare on Elm Street_ copy, as well as _Hook_ , _Child’s Play_ and _The Addams Family_. Todd looks less than pleased with the horror choices, but you don’t mind. Honestly, they seem more like comedies in the wake of the arcade event. 

You do slide _Child’s Play_ under the pushed-aside coffee table and settle Larry with a pointed look. 

He gives a small, apologetic grin. “Right, too close to animatronics. My bad.” 

That’s how your night winds down. It’s not an awful end, but even once all the snacks have been eaten and the TV blares a muted static from the last movie, you find yourself staring at the ceiling. 

Ashley and Todd are at the front of the small pile of blankets and pillows, curled up and sleeping peacefully. Larry is behind them, in front of your legs, stretched out and snoring. The empty Originals chip bag is strewn over his chest and crumbs decorate the collar of his t-shirt. 

Sal has, presumably, fallen asleep by your left side. He’s laying down while you’re sitting up, propped against the side of your couch, close enough to touch but too peaceful to disturb. 

You want to sleep. You wish you could. Instead, you just fiddle with the buttons of the remote. The VCR clock says it’s three A.M. 

All of this should exhaust you. 

Sal’s hand comes to tug at the sleeve of your jacket. You jolt, staring down at him with wide eyes. 

_‘Guess he wasn’t asleep after all_.’ 

“You doing okay?” 

His voice is ragged, hoarse and sleep-soft. You shrug. 

“Not really.” 

“C’mere.” He scoots as far to the left as possible and pats the prime, still-warm spot he just vacated. You waffle back and forth for a moment before deciding, sure, you’ll take his offer. You shuffle down—accidentally jabbing Larry in the side, but he doesn’t do more than grunt—and roll on your side, facing Sal. When you tuck your hands under your head and stare at him, you have a frown on your face. 

Sal stares back. His left eye is focused on you, but the right eye is slightly ajar. You don’t bring it up. Sal’s business is his own. He taps a nonsensical rhythm against his pillow. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about what happened tonight.” 

“I don’t,” You affirm. 

He nods. “And I get it. We don’t have to talk about it now, but I think we need to...” He trails off. He seems to weight something in his head, glancing back and forth between your face and the others, before he quietly moves his hand forward and presses the pads of his fingers to your temple. 

You tense. It’s too close to your face, far too intimate, and while you trust Sal not to strike you, you’re all-too familiar with a raised fist. 

Sal, thankfully, seems to realize your uneasiness. He moves his fingers to your hair, petting you like he would Gizmo. It’s awkward, but... Endearing. Sweet, even. 

“There’s a lot I think you need to know about Nockfell. Especially since we’re friends,” Sal’s looks to the side. His voice is quiet beneath his prosthetic. You want to tell him he doesn’t have to sleep in it, but if he’s not comfortable showing you his face, well... You won’t push him. “I don’t want you getting hurt here.” 

You don’t want to know more about Nockfell. You don’t want to know more about the apartments or the stupid, possessed possum taking up residence four blocks over. You curl your fingers in the mess of blankets and give a one-armed shrug, offering Sal the best smile you can muster. 

It’s barely a twitch of your lips. 

“Stop trying to save me, dude. You’ll make me look bad.” 

That gets a little chuckle out of him. “Come on,” You remove his hand from your head. “Let’s get some rest.” 

You aren’t expecting Sal to lock his fingers around your palm, squeezing your hand tight. He gives a sleepy mutter and turns his head upwards so that the back of his head can rest comfortably on his pillow. Had he only been half-awake this whole time? 

He gives a grunt of agreement, your name a muted murmur on his lips. “G’night. Sweet dreams.” 

You stare hard at his hand in yours and decide that, for now, you’ll allow it. 

You fall asleep holding Sal’s hand and your friends surrounding you, keeping you safe from all the horrors that prowl Nockfell at night.


End file.
